into the woods each time you go there's more to learn of what you know

Tonight is a feast. For your eyes, and for my tummy. I have before me the French version of a brownie, called exactly that, a "Brownie." I also have a photograph of my dessert from earlier in the week, a personal favorite of mine, called a "mille feuille," quite literally, thousand sheets. In this case, sheets of pastry.





I'll be writing more this weekend, when I have a day off, finally, after weeks of errand running and the past two weeks of figuring out the school and teaching aspect of my life here. I've had to make two trips to Poitiers for orientation meetings, and I've been introduced to all my classes of little French children. Most of them are middle-schoolers, and I have a few classes at the high school too. We'll see which I prefer, although the younger ones are cuter. More enthusiastic about meeting someone new, at any rate, which always makes interacting with them easier. Also, the first of our five vacations begins in a week, and I'm in the process of choosing my adventure. I'll probably end up exploring the region, particularly the nearby Gallo-Roman town of Saintes and, of course, Cognac. I get five paid vacations throughout the year, every seven weeks. I swear I don't know how Americans work the way they do. I quite like it here. We're also in the middle of a three-day strike against the retirement reform. The professeurs at school are all very passionate about it, encouraging me to go see the manifestations to either participate or at least experience it. Three manifestations are planned for the next three days. I feel the need to point out that every week I have been here (four or five, I'm too lazy to count), there has been at least one strike a week. I love the French. I do. I wish we did more of that sort of active participatory democracy. There's more to democracy than voting. Speaking of, if I were in the States, I'm sure you all would know exactly where I'd be on October 30? The Rally to Restore Sanity and the March to Keep Fear Alive, of course. Yes, I'd be at both. And if I find out any of you who have the ability to go choose not to, I'll be very vexed with you. But no rubbing it in if you are going, because I'm very sensitive—it would upset me.

But I digress. The feast for your eyes continues with photographs of my new home. La Rochelle is beautiful; a seaside resort town which reminds me—at different times—of Charleston, Myrtle Beach, Cannes, and the rest of the Mediterranean coast. I feel the need to point out that there is water, everywhere, and palm trees that wouldn't survive in Charlotte's climate (too cold). It's also the region of cognac and pineau, two drinks I'm coming to love more and more each day. I think I got quite lucky in my assignment of La Rochelle.


My particular love for the city begins with its three medieval towers. The above is my favorite of them all, set along the water to guard the old port for almost 700 years. The photo is courtesy of my father, as is the following:

That is an overview of the old port from the lantern tower, one of the only medieval lighthouses still in existence and home to hundreds of years of prison graffiti carved into the walls by captured pirates, British sailors, rebels, and men whose only remaining way to leave their mark in the world was through grooves carved into stone walls. The other two medieval towers are visible along the ramparts, as well as the giant clock tower which served as the gate to the old walled city. I live in there. And when I go sit in a cafe, as I do as often as possible, to drink a coca, kir, or a chocolat chaud, you can picture for yourself my view of the Place de Verdun through the windows of Cafe de la Paix. It's my personal favorite little nook, decorated a hundred years ago. I'm nothing if not predictable in my love of very old things.